From some totally unexpected quarter he was once again being fired at, and a sharp metallic ring told him that some portion of his engine had been struck by one of the marksmen below.
Once more he passed through an instant of overwhelming anxiety.
But the steady droning roar of the powerful engine brought cheer to his heart.
“No—no; not yet!” he muttered. “I still have a chance to cheat the Boches.”
The thrilling adventures and narrow escapes through which Don Hale had passed instead of lessening his courage and determination had increased them, though he fully realized how strangely the elements of chance had favored him. That sharp ping of the bullet striking the engine acted on his nature like a spark applied to gunpowder, arousing all his combativeness.
As the plane neared the giant observation balloon a sudden and daring idea flashed into the young combat pilot’s mind, and then, almost for the first time, he thought of the part he had played in preventing the destruction of the photographic machine. Why couldn’t he add another feat to his credit?
“By George, I’ll make a good try!” he cried, his pulse beginning to tingle anew.
The Nieuport was now almost upon the huge, unwieldy monster, and Don could plainly see the details on its smooth and shining surface.
The balloon, anchored to a heavy motor tractor, swayed gently from side to side as the cable to which it was attached was drawn down by a windlass. Dozens of men, too, were aiding in its descent by pulling on smaller ropes.
A touch on the control stick sent the Nieuport climbing upward. Then, precisely at the proper moment, Don Hale put an end to the ascending flight, and turning the nose of the machine downward, he shut off the engine and dove straight for the great gas bag.